


Got you

by Giveusakiss4132



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coffeelock, Daddy Kink, Hair-pulling, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Oral Sex, Sugar Daddy, young!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-19 08:36:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2381933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giveusakiss4132/pseuds/Giveusakiss4132
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nineteen year old Sherlock is making ends meet at Donovan's cafe when established doctor John Watson stops in one day. </p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Half caf no foam three pumps vanilla and two sugar, with extra whipped cream,” the girl, about Sherlock’s age snaps, and then looks up from the mobile she’s glued to, and starts. “Um, please?” she tries again, and gives him what he’s sure she means to be an enticing smile.

 

It’s not. 

 

“May I have your name?” he asks, and forces a smile because it’s crap, what he’s paid, and he lives off his tips.

 

Fucking Mycroft. Sherlock does a teeny amount of drugs and his fat, awful brother decides to put his inheritance in trust. He has to wait until he’s twenty-five to see another quid of family money, and that’s six years away. 

 

“Alison,” comes the reply, along with a heavily made up wink and oh yes thank you Alison, a fiver. Sherlock meets her eyes and holds them for a moment and then winks back. Three quid drops into the tip jar alongside the fiver, and Sherlock hears a huffing laugh behind the girl before he whirls away to make her drink. 

 

He packs in the freshly ground beans tightly and twists firmly because if you don’t, theres a mess of grounds and boiling water and Sherlock just bought these shoes, ta very much. He had a particularly fine Sunday morning, tip wise, and decided to treat himself a bit. He was on his feet all bloody day, he might as well be comfortable. He tops the drink-it can hardly be called coffee- with a bit of whip, then looks at the girl, and adds a drop more, and smiles. “Come see me again, yes?” he asks, because good tippers are always welcome. She sighs and nods and pretends she hasn’t just burnt her tongue on her too hot drink as she leaves. 

 

Sherlock turns to the next customer-

 

And stops.

 

Because holy God you don’t see that every day. Trim, a bit shorter than Sherlock after his last growth spurt, but well muscled under a tailored suit. He has crinkled, happy blue eyes and more than a touch of grey. 

 

“Hello,” he says, and it’s soft and kind and interesting. 

 

“Hello,” Sherlock answers, just a tiny bit blank. 

 

The man smiles, and his eyes crinkle even more and it’s better. It’s better than anything Sherlock’s seen his whole life. Better than the ocean and an empty chem lab and a full tip jar and anything, ever, ever, ever. The smile tips up, just slightly, and there’s a bit of laughter in his better, better eyes and Sherlock is standing there like an idiot. 

 

“Coffee!” he blurts.

 

“Coffee?” the man asks, and there’s definitely laughter in his voice now. Idiot. 

 

“Um, yes. You want some?” he asks, like he hasn’t been away to the very best of schools since he was eight years old. 

 

“I do. Want some, that is,” and the man eyes are bloody dancing and Sherlock knows he’s being laughed at but it’s not mean. He knows the difference by now. 

 

“How?” Sherlock closes his eyes briefly, because he has never ever ever ever been this much of an idiot without chemical help. If his fat, awful brother could see him right now, it would be off to rehab again. “Um how do you take it?”

 

Oh God, he’s blushing now. Brilliant. Just be an idiot Sherlock, I’m sure no one notices. 

 

The man chuckles, and shakes his head. “Black, no sugar. Please.”

 

“Right. Right I can just-” Sherlock forces himself to stop talking and turns around and reaches for a to-go mug. “You’re not staying?” and he hears how hopeful and stupid he sounds and what is wrong with him? It’s not like he’s never seen a handsome man before. And this man isn’t even gorgeous or remarkable, he’s just... okay. He’s hot. A bit. 

 

“No, not today,” there’s such a smile in the man’s voice, and it’s lovely. 

 

Sherlock pours coffee into the largest to go they have, and hands it over. 

 

“That’s two fifty, Sir,” and the man’s eyebrow goes up at the honorific, and his smile gets even wider. 

 

“Ta,” he says, and hands over a twenty pound note, and walks away. 

 

****

 

Sherlock takes the next four morning shifts hoping to see The Man. 

 

“Did you put on mascara?” Sally asks. She’s his manager, and it’s the only thing that stops him from throwing a latte in her face. Instead he scowls, and wipes down the frother again, in case He wants something besides black coffee. If He ever shows up again. 

 

Idiot. 

 

The bell to the shop door rings and Sherlock sighs. Sally is greeting the customer, the last of the morning rush thank God because Sherlock wants to sit and eat his feelings in the form of Mrs. Hudson’s blueberry scones in the back, and he’s going to put clotted cream and jam on them and he might-

 

“Hello.”

 

Sherlock springs up and shoves Sally out of the way- don’t fire me please but do I hate it here- and stands in front of the register. “Hi. Hello. Welcome to Donovans. Coffee?” Stupid stupid stupid mouth. 

 

Oh. Oh, that’s brilliant. He hasn’t a stupid mouth at all, because the man is laughing quietly, and his teeth are square little white things and his mouth is slightly thin but there’s this soft little patch of blond that he’s missed shaving and stop, stop staring oh God. 

 

 “Coffee. Yes.” He’s laughing and it’s sweet. 

 

“I’m Sherlock.”

 

“Hello Sherlock. I’m John,” the man- John offers. 

 

“Okay,” Sherlock says and stands there. 

 

And John just smiles, and waits for Sherlock to get himself together and stop being ridiculous. 

 

And no one has ever done that before. Just waited for Sherlock to stop thinking and catch up and be normal, and it makes something inside him hurt, just a little. Because he’s nice looking with crinkly blue eyes and he’s patient. 

 

No one is ever patient. 

 

Sherlock shakes himself back into the world, and turns to pour him a cup of coffee, black, no sugar, and when John leaves, Sally shakes her head and can’t believe that earned Sherlock a seventeen pound tip. 

 

*****

 

“Right. Right.” Sherlock looks himself firmly in the dorm room mirror. Mycroft, thank God, is still paying tuition, but he had to give up his flat and move back into the dorms at Oxford. It’s not too terrible, because after three dorm mates they just stopped giving him more, so Sherlock has the place to himself. 

 

He misses having his own kitchen, but he’s not too far from the science wing, and he supposes he’ll make do for a bit longer.    “Right. You are not going to turn into an idiot when John shows up. John doesn’t like idiots-” he tells himself firmly, although it seems that John does like idiots, a bit, since he smiles wider when Sherlock babbles all over himself “and you are going to comport yourself with dignity,” he says, drawing his shoulders back “with poise,” he reminds himself. 

 

He returns back to his room and manages to shove himself into a pair of black trousers and looks longingly at his Dolce purple button down. He can’t afford to spill coffee and milk on it, so he shoves it back into his closet and pulls out a green button down that wasn’t two hundred pounds. Fat, awful Mycroft. 

 

He adds a slightly shameful coat of mascara and slips on his shoes. Into battle. 

 

****

 

John walks in as Sherlock is finishing a double mocha salted diabetes death drink for a soccer mom who is trying to slip her number in with his tip. It’s two pounds, and Sherlock doesn’t even bother rolling his eyes. 

 

 Anderson is walking towards the register to take John’s order, and Sherlock hisses sharply. Anderson freezes. Then he looks towards John again and smirks. “That’s hi-” 

 

“Why don’t you go try to put your hand up Sally’s skirt again,” he whispers, and Anderson pales. 

 

Sherlock glides- poised, calm, not even a little bit like an idiot to the register. “Hi John,” he says like a normal person. 

 

“Good morning Sherlock.”

 

“Yeah, good morning,” Sherlock replies, dreamily. Ugh. Idiot. Why!

 

But John laughs, so it’s alright. He’s looking particularly shaggable today in a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and tan trousers. Sherlock turns to grab him a to go, and John makes a small, disagreeing noise. Almost a tut. Sherlock’s body freezes at the sound.

 

“No?” He feels stupid, because obviously he’s displeased John, obviously he was being presumptuous. He was always assuming things about people, being so bloody stupid clever. But there was always something he missed. He never won deductions against fat, awful Mycroft. 

 

“It’s alright Sherlock,” John’s voice was gentle, and soft and sweet, and not disappointed at all. “I’m just staying, is all. Maybe a real mug this time?” 

 

Sherlock looks at him again. Hands slightly chapped, probably from excessive washings, good suit but not a city boy, comfortable shoes and no tie. And Sherlock can detect a faint waft of rubbing alcohol. And a sodding lovely bedside manner. 

 

“No patients this morning?” Sherlock asks and John’s surprised look makes Sherlock feel brilliant. 

 

“How on earth did you know I was a doctor?” 

 

So Sherlock tells him, and holds his breath, because why, why would he do that? Why would he bring his freak stuff right out there, for John to see?

 

“Brilliant,” John announces. 

 

“What?”

 

“Brilliant. That you can do all that. Extraordinary, simply extraordinary,” John is smiling and shaking his lovely head and Sherlock wants to kiss him. 

 

“You really think so?” 

 

“Oh yes. That’s incredible.” 

 

Sherlock smiles, and waves him over to a table, and when he brings John his cup of black coffee, no sugar, he brings a scone as well. Because no one has ever been as nice as Doctor John. 

 

John stays through morning lull, and two more cups of coffee, and when Sherlock bends over to wipe the tables off after breakfast rush, he catches John staring. 

 

Operation Seduce John begins to form in his head. 

 

John leaves thirty pounds on the table when he forces himself to go.

 

****

 

Sherlock’s testicles are never going to forgive him for these trousers, and he knows it twenty minutes into his shift. His shirt is holding on by a prayer and sheer determination, and he has made over seventy quid in tips in the past two hours. 

 

John is late. John has been walking in at seven, every morning, and it’s sodding past nine, and all Sherlock wants to do is peel this stupid outfit off and cry. If he were the crying sort. Which he is not because crying is for idiots. 

 

Twenty minutes and nearly the same amount of customers later, and John finally walks in. He’s wearing a jumper and jeans and he hasn’t shaved. Sherlock has to hold on to the counter to keep himself upright. 

 

No one should look like that in a dowdy jumper. No bloody one. 

 

He gets in line behind a middle aged mum, three children, unhappy marriage, adderall addiction, two Splenda, skim, one pump vanilla. He’s smiling. 

 

God.

 

“Whipped cream, Miss?” He’s too happy to flirt with her, even if she is a big tipper. At least he doesn’t forget himself entirely and call her Ma’am... they hate that. 

 

“Only if I can lick it off you,” she mutters. Ah, started on the adderall early, then. 

 

“Excuse me?” John’s voice is rough and sharp and commanding and Sherlock straightens up immediately. 

 

All eyes turn towards the counter. 

 

“What?” the woman piffles.

 

“What the hell did you just say to him?” John snaps. 

 

The woman rolls her eyes. “Oh relax, dressing like that I’m sure he gets it enough,” she tries a wink in Sherlock’s direction, but he’s still frozen. 

 

“I don’t give a sod if he’s naked, you don’t say shite like that,” John hisses. 

 

“He’s just a barista, Christ sakes,” she grumbles. But John is staring her down, and she backs away with a muttered ‘never mind’ and walks out. 

 

“Have a nice day Ma’am!” Sherlock calls after her, because he can move and speak and smile now because John is in front of him and no one defends Sherlock but fat, awful Mycroft and that’s just family obligation. John... John just maybe likes him. 

 

“Thank you,” Sherlock mutters, and his heart fucking stops when John covers his hand with his own. 

 

“You don’t have to take that, Sherlock.”

 

“Do, a bit,” he mutters, because it’s true. He lives off his tips, and fat, awful Mycroft won’t relent on the money even if he’s clean for the rest of his life. 

 

“Sherlock,” John starts, and suddenly Sherlock wants John to go. He feels so stupid in his awful testicle crushing trousers and his stupid shirt and his idiot job. John’s only being nice because Sherlock is pathetic and pretty and besotted and it’s funny, probably. 

 

So Sherlock shoves a to go cup filled with black coffee and and no sugar and crying is for idiots.

 

****

 

Sherlock takes three days vacation and realizes caffeine withdrawal is a real thing. It’s got nothing on cocaine withdrawal but it still brings back unhappy memories and a pounding headache. 

 

He drags himself out of bed and into work on Saturday with enough time to be force fed a sticky bun by Mrs. Hudson, who says he’s looking peaky, and gulp down a truly impressive amount of coffee before morning rush. John’s the eleventh customer in, and Sherlock is in the back getting more scones when he sees him, and Anderson has already given him his to go. 

 

But John catches Sherlock’s eye and a wave of relief comes over his face for the briefest of moments before John finds himself the last open table and plops down. 

 

He nurses his coffee for almost an hour until it slows down, and Sherlock manages stop being ridiculous long enough to bring him a fresh cup and swipe away the cold half full to go cup. “Anderson made that pot, it’s awful,” he shares, and tries his hand at a smile. 

 

“Yours is always better,” John says and returns the smile full stop. 

 

“Well I’d hope so, if I can’t make a proper pot of coffee, I won’t have any hope as a chemist.”

 

John’s eyes light up. “You’re in uni then?”

 

“First year. I’m reading chemistry,” Sherlock supplies.

 

“Oh thank bloody God,” John mutters into his cup. 

 

“Huh?” ‘Don’t say huh say pardon’, fat, awful Mycroft’s voice sounds in his head. It’s echoed by Mummy and Father and Nanny. 

 

Ergh. 

 

“I was a bit worried you were in secondary and that I was a bloody pervert,” John confessed, and then winced. 

 

Sherlock laughed, and then laughed a bit more until he had to sit down because John liked him. He did. 

 

“Well, I can’t say for the pervert bit, but no. I’m nineteen.”

 

“Oh, I am a bad man,” John tells his cup of coffee. 

 

Sherlock quirked a brow “are you?” 

 

“Oh, God. Go wipe the tables,” he said, but he was smiling, and Sherlock was soaring. 

 

“Yes Doctor John,” because now Sherlock had data. Now Sherlock knew. And now... operation Seduce Doctor John was coming back full swing. 

 

“Watson.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“It’s Doctor Watson,” John corrected, and smiled like sunshine. 

 

“Yes, Doctor Watson,” and a thrill went through Sherlock. 

 

*****

 

“You’ll make me fat if you keep giving me these scones,” John complains as he lashes on more jam. A great one for strawberry jam, Doctor Watson. 

 

Sherlock laughs and shakes his head. “There’s not any fat on you, Doctor Watson.” Which was true. 

 

“Trust me, there is,” John argues. “Middle age gets to us all.”

 

“Well I think you look incredibly fit,” Sherlock replies, and smiles when John blushes. He didn’t get to see that blush often, but it always cropped up when he caught John staring at him when he cleaned the tables, or fetched baked goods from the bottom shelf. Or when Sherlock complimented him. Never when he flirted, John just laughed at him then. 

 

“Must be your army days?” Sherlock guesses. 

 

“Bloody incredible. Now how’d you guess that?”

 

“Your hair’s kept short out of habit, and you go into parade rest when you stand in line,” Sherlock wipes a bit of jam off the table and started when John’s hand took his own.

 

“You shouldn’t clean up after me Sherlock. I can do it,” John hasn’t let go of his hand. 

 

“I... I don’t mind.” Don’t stutter. Don’t. Oh God. “It’s my job.”

 

“It’s not your job to take care of me,” John insists, and there was something in his eyes that Sherlock can’t even begin to deduce. John flips his hand over, and traces the fresh burn mark from Sally bumping him when he was frothing disgusting almond milk this morning. “Who takes care of you?”

 

No one. No one took care of him. “I do.”

 

John clears his throat. “Yeah well. You shouldn’t have to,” and let go of Sherlock’s hand, but not before running a thumb over his wrist. Sherlock’s pulse was frantic. 

 

*****   

 

“Sherlock, it’s getting obscene,” Anderson complains when Sherlock walks into work the next day. 

 

“What are you blathering about?”

 

“Sally! Sally tell him he can’t come to work like that,” Anderson made a desperate gesture at Sherlock’s trousers. “It’s obscene. You can see his...” Anderson made another gesture.

 

Sally glances down. And then down again and lingered. Anderson choked and threw a dish towel. 

 

“Relax Anderson, it’s not for her,” Sherlock smirks.

 

 

****

 

“Dirty table, is it?” John muses, voice low.

 

“Filthy,” Sherlock answers, bending over it a little more. “Absolute animals ate here. No manners. The crumbs John, the crumbs,” Sherlock shakes his head in mock horror. 

 

“You’re killing me, you know that?” John’s voice is rough. “You’re fucking gorgeous and you’re killing me.” It seems that three months of Sherlock’s Operation Seduce Doctor Watson was John’s breaking point. 

 

 Three months of quiet snatches of conversation had led to John confessing his army days were over because of a shoulder wound, and his surgery days nearly finished too, until his tremor went away. He had confessed about therapy actually helping, and Sherlock had told him that he couldn’t remember a time in his childhood when he hadn’t seen therapists. Why wasn’t Sherlock talking? Why wasn’t Sherlock shutting up? Why did Sherlock dissect that dead squirrel? Which was already dead, thank you! 

 

Why doesn’t Sherlock have any friends? 

 

They talked about how everyone was dull at university and how Sherlock wanted to quit and couldn’t because then he’d have no place to live. 

 

 They spoke about how boring GP and minor surgery was after the bullet wounds and explosions of war. 

 

Sherlock deduced people during lulls and brought John to tears of laughter after each one.

 

And John had finally broken, after all of it, and Sherlock was abruptly terrified because now it wasn’t some plan or abstract idea or tease. Now it was this brilliant, lovely man looking at Sherlock like he mattered, and no one had done that before. 

 

“Sorry. Sorry Jesus. I thought, but shit sorry. Of course you wouldn’t. Of course not, I’m some forty-eight year old GP and you’re beautiful and young and brilliant. Of course you-”

 

He is cut off by Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock doesn’t know who was more surprised, John or himself because he doesn’t even remember moving, he truly doesn’t. But there he is and John is all closed mouth surprised for ten seconds.

 

Sherlock starts to pull away and warm callused lovely hands yank him back and John’s mouth opens and John’s tongue is bitter coffee sweet jam lovely. Sherlock moans as John licks into his mouth and he hears, vaguely Sally shrieking that he is fired and John whispers apologies into his mouth but nothing matters besides the hand in his hair, tugging, and the hand on his hip, warm through his stupidly tight trousers, and the soft, thin lips against his. 

 

John pulls back, looking elated and worried at the same time. “It’s okay, it’s okay love. I’ll take care of you. You don’t need this job if you don’t want it, I’ll take care of you. I’ve got you.” Sherlock wants to cry in relief at the words.

 

Not because he hated his job, which was amusing and tedious by turns- and apparently over. Not even that John was promising him mad things in the heat of it all. 

 

John had him. Warm, brilliant, safe John had him by the hair and the hip and the heart and he wasn’t going to let Sherlock go. He was going to take care of him. 

 

“You have me?” Sherlock whispered.

 

“Of course. Of course I do,” John promised.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well then. People seem to love this, which is extremely gratifying. So ta, all. In case someone wants to know where I stole the tumblr prompt from, follow kinklock on tumblr. She’s got lovely ideas, and I intend on stealing at least ten of them. You may also follow me on tumblr, as Giveusakiss413. I’m not even slightly interesting, since I’m new to everything, but there you have it. 
> 
>  
> 
> I apologize once again for the lack of porn in this. It’s on it’s way, I swear. There will be tremendous amounts of buggery very soon, I just haven’t written any since I was in the Harry Potter fandom and about 14. So stick with me, darlings. It’ll happen. 
> 
>  
> 
> Oh and if someone wants to beta this, oh, my god, please let me know. I’m very lazy and hate correcting myself.

*********** 

 

 

It takes Mycroft six days to nearly ruin his life again. They’re on Savile Row, and Sherlock is being fitted for the first new suit he’s worn in almost two years. The material is soft and light and warm and right, and the tailors fingers and quick and gentle as they fly over him, marking adjustments and remeasuring. 

 

“Something for your father as well, Sir?” an assistant wonders. The accent is practiced posh, and just this side of simpering. 

 

John chokes on the weak tea he’s been plied with, going red, and starts to stammer. Sherlock meets his eyes and smiles. “Oh, he’s not my daddy,” he mutters and it’s low and sweet the way John likes, assured and happy, the way John likes because John has had about five crisis of conscience since rescuing Sherlock from frothy caffeinated hell a week ago, and Sherlock has learned the grand art of being a soothing person. 

 

Oddly enough, the smile and voice don’t work, because John chokes again, and he’s so red and Sherlock is sharply reminded of his age, and that John is fit, but likes fried things with an unhealthy regularity. A stupid pain hits Sherlock in the chest, as if he’s the one probably dying from a heart attack or a stroke or a debilitating lung condition from Afghanistan and his awful brain realizes that the probability of having John in his life for forty years is less than half of what he wants it to be, which is one hundred percent. 

 

“Are you alright, Sir?” the assistant looks panicked. Probably never had someone drop on them before. 

 

“Yeah, fine. Fine. Just need a bit of air,” John wheezes, but he’s steady when he walks out the door. 

 

He’s a bit less steady when he’s pulled into a black town car, but no one sees that. 

 

*****

 

Sherlock is using his emergencies are for actual emergencies card to buy his new suit, because John has been gone for over an hour, and Sherlock just wants to get out of this bloody place but he also really wants his suit. 

 

His hands are shaking as he walks down the street, and he knows John’s house is just three blocks away, and his university is a cab ride that he can’t afford in the slightest. 

 

John’s house is an actual house. An actual sodding house in London. With staircases and clean lines of decoration that John obviously didn’t do, since John is old fashioned and worn in a lovely soft jumper and beans on toast sort of way, and everything here is metal and leather and impeccably trendy. 

 

Sherlock loves it a little, and he’s never wanted to go back somewhere so much in his life, so he walks the three blocks and let’s himself in with lovely John’s hideous spare key. John had given it to him the other day, and Sherlock had been such a git but John had been sweet. It was pink, and glittery, and had the word “princess” on it, and Sherlock had informed John that he was not “that bloody gay” and John had whooped with laughter. 

 

Turns out the key had belonged to John’s eleven year old niece, who was away at school for the year. He was promised a key more “befitting his manliness” (which was said with a twitching mouth and dancing eyes) as soon as possible. 

 

Lovely, funny John. 

 

 “John?” but of course the lights weren’t on and awful eighties music wasn’t playing and there was only the faintest hint of tea in the air, so John wasn’t home. 

 

 Sherlock plopped himself on the floor of the foyer, and waited. 

 

******

 

The warehouse was pleasantly warm for a disused building, and the chair he was unceremoniously shoved into was comfortable enough that his bad leg, not that he even had a bad leg because it wasn’t real and he’d cured himself of that limping nonsense four years ago, twigged a bit. 

 

John didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t a man in his late twenties in a three piece. 

 

“Hello, Doctor Watson.” The accent was public school, and overwhelmingly polite.

 

“Hello?” He wanted a name.

 

He wasn’t getting one, by the smile on the smarmy git’s face. “I hope you weren’t mistreated on your journey here?”

 

“No, not at all. Nicest kidnapping I’ve ever experienced.” 

 

“Oh good. You see, Jackson has been watching over Sherlock for quite some time, and I dare say he’s almost attached at this point,” he gestures over to the tall, fit bloke that had grabbed John and shoved him in a car. “You should have seen what he did to one of Sherlock’s dealers.” The man, Jackson, cracked his knuckles. 

 

Dealers?! 

 

“Ah. I see my baby brother neglected to mention his less than savory habits. Well, we always want people to see the best of us, when something is new.” Mycroft. This was Mycroft. Well, he had a name, at least. Mycroft tilted his head and tapped his umbrella against the floor once. “And he is, you know. A baby. He’s a spoiled, difficult child, Doctor Watson, and I’d like very much to know why he’s been staying at your house and sleeping in your bed.”

 

John is silent, because Jesus Christ.

 

“When I said I want to know, Doctor Watson, why it is that you’ve taken my little brother into your house, I meant that if you do not tell me of your own volition, Jackson will hit you. If you continue not to tell me, he will hit you again. You might see a pattern forming here, you’re an intelligent man. Top five at Barts.” Mycroft nods his head in respectful acknowledgment. 

 

“So you beat me to a pulp and what, hide my body?” John is thrumming with energy, and he realizes he hasn’t enjoyed himself so much in years, apart from time spent with Sherlock. 

 

“No, good lord.” Mycroft scoffs. “We don’t torture people.” His smile says ‘officially’. “I would simply let the police know that material of a pornographic nature with certain young persons could be found on your computer in such a way that even Sherlock would run as fast and as far from you as he could.”

 

John blinks. Did this arsehole honestly just threaten to put kiddie porn on his computer? “I’m not a pedophile,” John snaps. 

 

“Aren’t you?” Mycroft snaps right back, and it’s the first time John’s seen something besides cold politeness, and he never wants to see it again. 

 

“No.” John says firmly. “I met Sherlock at a coffee shop. We talked. We laughed. I fancy him terribly, and he fancies me back. He lives in his dorm at Oxford. He’s visiting me, and we are getting on and we are dating. He does not live with me. I’m not sleeping with him.” John falls into the short, sharp sentences of his military days. Facts, quick words. Don’t flinch. 

 

He is most definitely in enemy territory. 

 

“How sweet. Isn’t that sweet, Jackson?”

 

“I’m near tearing up, Sir,” Jackson answers, and casts a look of such violence John’s way that John’s heart beats double time and he can’t help the smile on his face. 

 

When Jackson hits him a minute later, the blood is sharp and sweet in his mouth, and he enjoys spitting it on the man’s leather shoes. Jackson enjoys it less, and hits him again for the trouble. 

 

“Yes, thank you,” Mycroft drawls. Jackson backs off with clear reluctance. 

 

“I like that kid,” he hisses. 

 

Yeah, me too. 

 

“Doctor Watson, what is your interest in my brother?”

 

“As I’ve said before. We’re dating. I’m hoping it goes well. I’d like to see him again, and again, and again after that.” He’d like to keep Sherlock forever, when it comes right down to it, but frankly, he’s not putting his cards out for this bloke. 

 

“Doctor Watson,” Mycroft snaps “I have detained you unwillingly, had you beaten, and threatened to put child pornography on your computer. You would lose your license to practice medicine, you would lose your very lucrative carer, and you would lose your freedom. Why don’t you seem frightened?”

 

John meets his eyes. “You just don’t seem very frightening, Mycroft.” He is. He’s a fucking scary bloke, to be honest, but John has faced nutters with guns doing their level best to kill him and all his friends, and not flinched, so he figures he can hold himself together for awhile longer. 

 

“Ah, I see Sherlock has mentioned me.” There’s a slightly pleased air now, and John almost likes him. 

 

 “He said you’re fat.” Still, the git did have him kidnapped. There was a noise coming from Jackson that sounded a bit like laughter. Mycroft’s smile disappeared. 

 

“Doctor Watson, I see you’ve decided on a second carer as a comic.”

 

“No really, he says you’re fat all the time.” Now he’s just asking for it, but at this point, the chair isn’t quite so comfortable, and the warehouse is getting uncomfortably warm. He prods his back molar with his tongue, and regrets it immediately. “And it’s third carer. I was a soldier,” he points out. 

 

“Yes, so your file says. A war hero. Decorated. How’s the limp?”

 

“Gone.”

 

“And your shoulder?”

 

“Twinges in the rain, a bit,” John says, smiling. Sherlock had concocted a lovely lotion for his shoulder the other day, and spent a half hour rubbing it on John’s shoulder, and murmuring filth in his ear. John suddenly, sharply regrets not shagging the living shit out of Sherlock, just in case Mycroft follows through on his threats and he never sees him again. 

 

Christ, he’s going to miss him. 

 

“You should move to a warmer climate, then.” Mycroft suggests, and he’s pleasant again, terrifyingly so. 

 

“I like it here, ta very much.”

 

“Do you plan on seeing my brother again?”

 

“Yes. Always yes, unless he wants rid of me, always yes.” John sees the angry concern in Mycroft’s eyes. “I’m not hurting him, yeah? I’m not making him do anything he doesn’t want. We’re bloody dating. He’s allowed to date, and be happy. I think I make him happy.”

 

“Cocaine makes Sherlock happy, Doctor Watson. Not other people.”

 

“Yeah don’t think I’m not going to have words over that shite, because we fucking well will have words over it, but it’s mad how little you know him, when I’m sure you get creepy little reports and have him followed. Sherlock loves people. Loves how they work and why they work and what they’re doing. He thinks they’re interesting, and he loves being interested in things. So yeah, I’m going to see him again.”

 

Mycroft stares hard at him for another minute, and walks away. Jackson comes up, tapping on a phone. “I’m to take you home, Doctor Watson.”

 

“Brilliant.”

 

******

 

Sherlock has fallen into a anxious half sleep by the time John gets home. He’s wrapped pathetically in one of John’s jumpers, too big and too short by far, and he’s frowning. John wants to scoop him up and carry him to bed and kiss him half out of oxygen, but his shoulder is hurting like mad, and he needs to see a dentist in the morning-goddamnit- and Sherlock is too bloody tall to carry up the stairs without overbalancing and killing them both, so instead he kneels next to him on the cold floor, and brushes his hand through Sherlock’s hair until he wakes up. 

 

“Where did you go? Did you have a stroke? Are you breaking up with me?” Sherlock is sleepy stupid, in the way he only gets when he’s been snogging John for excessive amounts of time, or he’s just woken up and hasn’t had time to be brilliant yet. 

 

“I didn’t have a stroke. God, Sherlock I go to the gym five days a week, why would I have a stroke?” John is a little offended, in the way only Sherlock can make him. Half amused, half angry. 

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “What did your father die of? These things are genetic.”

 

“He’s died of nothing, ta. He and my mum live in Brighton, and they’ve got more corgis than the Queen.”

 

“Oh.” Sherlock looks indignant now, all fluffy bed head curls and sleep crumbles in his eyes. “Well where were you? Are you breaking up with me?” There’s a brave face now, and John kisses it all over for a solid three minutes, which hurts his face where he was hit, but heals his heart right away. 

 

“No, I’m not breaking up with you, silly boy. Gorgeous boy. And I was spirited away by your delightful brother for a lovely round of interrogation and-”

 

“Oh my God, your face!” Sherlock must have been truly done in, that he’s just noticing now. “Oh my God, I’ll kill him. I’ll put acid in his tea, I’ll learn to shoot, I’ll poison his cake. He loves cake, he’ll eat it. And then he’ll die.” 

 

“That really shouldn’t be turning me on,” John whispers and swoops in for a kiss. Sherlock stops him with a hand. 

 

“You’re hurt. What about Mycroft?” John hears a whispered ‘fat, awful’ under Sherlock’s breath. 

 

“Kidnapped me, a bit. Had some prat in a suit rough me up. I’m fine. Threatened to put kiddie porn on my laptop, which is a bit less fine, but yeah. Let’s talk about drugs, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock waves a careless hand. “Haven’t done anything in more than seven months. What’s this about your computer?” Sherlock looks nervous. 

 

“What? He can’t actually do any of that, Sherlock. It’s password protected!”

 

Sherlock gives him a ‘oh you sweet stupid man’ look, and pats him reassuringly. “You know what I’m getting you for Christmas? A lovely firewall. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Mycroft is well on his way to running the country, John. Give him a decade more, and he’ll be deciding foreign elections and mucking up traffic for his own amusement. He’s... I’ll talk to him, okay? If you like.”

 

“I thought you didn’t speak to your brother?”

 

“Well. I mean, he’s awful and fat-is he still fat?- but I suppose I can try to er, smooth things over.” 

 

“In time for Christmas and everything,” John jokes. 

 

“John! We aren’t having Mycroft for Christmas! We’re going to Prague,” Sherlock informs him, scowling. 

 

“Are we?” This is news to John.

 

Sherlock casts him a withering look. “We are. And you’re going to shag me there, so you’ve got three weeks to get over whatever it is that’s stopping you, because this is my first sex holiday, and I’d rather you not get up twenty minutes early every morning to have a wank when I’m right-” Sherlock’s breath hitches and John feels like the biggest bastard in the world. 

 

 “Sherlock-” he starts. 

 

“It’s just, I thought when we left Donovans, and then you took me to lunch instead.”

 

“You liked lunch,” John pointed out. 

 

“Of course I liked lunch.”

 

“Sherlock, I do want you, I just don’t want to push, or rush it. I don’t want you running off.”

 

“Wouldn’t. I wouldn’t run off. I just- I want you to like me. And I want you to want me.”

 

John laughed. “You’re seriously wondering if I like you, when your complete bastard of a brother just kidnapped me and threatened to put me in prison for something I decidedly didn’t do, and I still want you. Jesus Sherlock, there’s no question of how much I want this.”

 

“So Prague, then? Sex hols?” Sherlock sounds too casual, and John squeezes him. 

 

“Yeah, Prague. Okay.” John smiles.

 

“And you still like me, even with fat, awful Mycroft?”

 

“Fat, awful Mycroft can move in next door, you tit, and I’d still like you. Let’s get off this floor and you can rub my shoulder with that stuff,” John announces cheerfully. 

 

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve got you John.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was beta’d by the lovely Stitched_Wide_Open, and that’s why it’s so much prettier than my last few chapter. Thank you, thank you.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for the insane amount of kudos and comments and subs this has gotten. I’m really new to Sherlock, and haven’t been in the fandom for more than a month, and seeing the attention this has gotten without any contests or subscriptions or tumblr followers or anything has been insane and staggering and lovely, so thank you. Thanks to everyone who rec’d and talked about it. Please tell someone if you’ve enjoyed it. Hell, tell me.
> 
>  
> 
> Rating goes up for this chapter, and stays that way.

“A new car would’ve been cheaper, Johnny,” are the first words out of Harry Watson’s mouth when Sherlock walks into the living room. 

 

She’s blood-shot-eyes-blown-out-fake-blonde-hair mean, and she’s wearing shoes she could afford three years ago, but can’t now. Her lipstick is the kind of perfect that only comes from repeated tries, and there’s a faded, almost unnoticeable smudge of pink over the bow of her lips, and this tells Sherlock everything. 

 

“Hi, you must be Harriet, John’s sister. Would you like something to drink?” Sherlock meets her boring blue eyes. “Who am I kidding, of course you would.” He pours three fingers of John’s worst scotch, and smiles. “Let me know when you need a refill.”

 

John sighs, which turns pretty quickly into another noise altogether once Sherlock plops himself down on his lap. “Good at pouring drinks, aren’t you? John said he found you in a coffee shop,” Harry shoots right back. Oh, fun.

 

“Not nearly as good as you are, what with all your experience.”

 

“Okay, yeah, this isn’t going to happen; we’re not having a fight six days before Christmas. What’re you doing here Harry?” John is already one hundred percent over this, and Sherlock and his sister have just met. 

 

“Not that we aren’t pleased to see you, of course,” Sherlock smiles his best ‘please tip me, see how sweet I am’ smile. 

 

John pinches him.

 

“It’s the holidays, can’t I see my own brother?” 

 

“Of course. Of course you can Harry. I’m happy to see you; you know I am. How’s Clara?”

 

“Left her,” mutters Sherlock.

 

“Fine, good. Says hi,” Harry shifts.

 

“Left her three weeks ago,” Sherlock mutters slightly louder. 

 

“Going to Christmas then? Mum’ll be that thrilled,” John’s hand is on Sherlock’s thigh, which would be the best thing in the world under other circumstances, but he’s pinching to keep Sherlock quiet. It’s still pretty much the best thing in the world, anyway. 

 

“No, no. Things are busy for her now; you know how it is. How about you and- what was it again, poppet?” Harry’s crow’s feet show up in stark relief when she smiles like that, and Sherlock wants to tell her. 

 

“Sherlock,” he supplies instead, because he’s being kind to others after the incident with the hat rack and the general incompetence of the waitstaff at a restaurant they’re no longer welcome at. John was displeased. 

 

“Oh, that’s precious,” Harry laughs. Sherlock winces. It’s a stupid name, if he’s honest. 

 

“Harry,” John warns, “no, we’re going on a holiday for Christmas, but we’ll be back for New Year. Maybe we’ll pop round and say hi then. Brighton’s horrible in the winter, the sea breeze can knock you over, but it might be nice?” John directs this last part at Sherlock, who’s gone stiff and still on his lap.

 

Parents. God. That’s actually terrifying, and Sherlock was counting on them being dead; but of course they’re alive and well and flooded with corgis, according to John. “Mmhm,” Sherlock agrees.

 

“That’s sweet. So what do you do, Sherlock?”

 

“I’m a student,” he says, as John winces, and quickly adds “university!” to Harry’s raised brow. 

 

Harry smiles. 

 

*******

 

“That went well,” John tries gallantly. 

 

“Remember when Mycroft kidnapped you, and beat you, and tried to get you sent to prison?” Sherlock says into his glass of John’s best scotch. John nods. “That was better than this.”

 

“Sherlock, it’s fine.”

 

Sherlock shakes his head. “That’s what everyone thinks, you know? That I’m some idiot boy swayed by shiny things and a bank account.” Sherlock looks up, “you know that’s not it, John. You’ve got to know that you’re brilliant and fit and funny and I like your jumpers and all of it. You’ve got to know that, don’t you? And I can get a job; Sally texted, you know. Customers are dropping off. I could get the job back no problem.” He doesn’t want that job back. Please tell him no. 

 

“Sherlock. You should be doing something you love, something you’re passionate about, not that. And I’ve told you before, your job is to do well in school, that’s all.” John drops one of Sherlock’s favorite things, a kiss, on the back of his ear. “I know, too. I know you care about me. I know how you feel.” Sherlock leans back against John, in his lap still. “I find it difficult, this sort of thing. Talking about it. But Sherlock, you’ve made my life better, just by being in it. Tell me you know that. You must know that?”

 

Sherlock twists to face him. “I know. Me too,” he whispers. 

 

“Besides,” John grins, “I like spoiling you.”

 

“I’m hardly spoiled!” Sherlock protests.

 

“How many people get to go to Prague for Christmas?” John argues.

 

“A little over a million people. One point two seven, actually.”

 

“You know the population of Prague, but you’ve no recollection of the prime minister?” John asks, disbelieving. 

 

“Dull,” Sherlock says, and leans in for a kiss.

 

******

 

Sherlock Holmes is the Devil, John has never been surer of anything in his life. “You’ll give yourself a cavity,” he tries. 

 

“Mmph?” Sherlock says, and sucks slightly harder on the lolly in his mouth. 

 

“All that sugar is bad for you,” John shifts. 

 

“It’s just transport, John,” Sherlock says, and licks the pink lollipop obscenely. 

 

“You shouldn’t be eating that before supper,” John weeps. 

 

Sherlock shrugs. “I’m hungry, I want something in my mouth.”

 

Annnnnd that’s it. That’s just fucking it. He’s reached his limit and his sanity shatters and that’s just fucking altogether it. So John tugs him over and pushes him to his knees in almost the same movement, and unzips his own trousers. “Say yes,” he grunts. “Please?”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says simply, and John tears the candy out of Sherlock’s mouth-take him to the dentist is he okay- and tugs his cock out of his pants and pushes past pouty, lovely lips and almost dies on the spot. 

 

No one should be this good, or this lovely, or this happy, sucking cock, because it’s a jaw-irritating, messy, spit soaked sort of thing, with hair in your teeth and no ones testicles taste nice, frankly, but Sherlock is humming and slurping and terribly, wonderfully, messy and his eyes are half-closed-happy and he’s humming tonelessly, just contented choked-off little noises. He’s licking around the tip and sucking around the middle and pressing open-mouth kisses at the base and John is dying, dying, dying. 

 

“I’m sorry, oh shit. I’m sorry, I wanted to wait and have a sex hols, I’m sorry,” John babbles. “Oh Jesus I’m going to put a bullet in whoever taught you to be this good at sucking someone off. Oh, my god. Oh my god, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock laughs. He laughs around John’s cock and it shoots straight up into his spine and stumbles along his belly and shocks his heart and his head and he’s a million pieces of wonderful right now. A million. 

 

A clever, pointed tongue laps along his slit and beautiful eyes meet his, and a smiling mouth is stretched, gratifyingly wide, over the head of his cock, and John wants this to go on forever. Forever. No more work, or food, or nights out with friends. He just wants to sit here and let Sherlock Holmes suck him to the root with a smile. 

 

“Oh God, baby. Baby, love, you are perfect. So sorry,” John thinks he’s speaking but hopes he’s not, because Sherlock isn’t one for pet names. John runs a hand through Sherlock’s hair and his beautiful happy eyes spark. “Like that, then?” John asks- and how is he even talking, oh god- and pulls a little and watches sleepy pink lids close in pleasure. 

 

“Oh yes, like that,” John rumbles, and tugs him half off his cock, and pushes in slowly, testing. 

 

This is quickly becoming a lot filthier than John wanted a first blowjob to be, but Sherlock makes a desperate noise, and John is lost. There’s just pounding heat and lovely noises and slurps and John finishes so quickly he thinks he’s switched ages with Sherlock, for a moment. 

 

John tugs him up and onto his lap with the last of his strength, and when he kisses Sherlock, wet and open and all teeth, he tastes like bubble gum candy and bitter semen, and it’s the most horrifyingly wonderful thing. 

 

Sherlock is squirming eagerly in his lap, nineteen and impatient and bright-eyed, and John reaches a hand into his pants and says: “got you. Let me, let me. Got you.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SEX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **************
> 
>  
> 
> This was going to be longer, but apparently I can't write anything past 2,000 words without it turning to trash, so here we are. I've got chapter five half written, so a week at the most until the next update. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you thank you thank you to my lovely beta Hana, and to all the people telling a friend and leaving kudos and reccing and subscribing and pimping on tumblr. There's no possible way my hit count could be so high without positive word of mouth (or word of typing?) especially for a new story, so I'm really very grateful to all of you that bother to read this, let alone leave lovely comments. Those are always welcome, of course. 
> 
>  
> 
> *******************

Prague is Christmas card pretty, all snowy and crisp and clean, with lovely little houses and puffing fireplaces. John, Sherlock discovers, is something of an amateur photographer.

 

“Now stand next to the fountain, and smile!” The fountain is frozen over, and so is Sherlock’s face. His cheeks hurt. His teeth are cold. His nose is running. The tips of his ears are going to fall off. He’s been standing next to various picturesque landmarks and public art for the past three hours, and if he could feel his feet, he’s sure they’d be killing him. 

 

“John,” he whines, and does his best pathetic sniffle. “It’s cold. I’m cold.” 

 

John frowns and walks over, peering closely. “You’re not getting sick, are you?” Sherlock rolls his eyes; John rewards him with a warm, biting kiss to the tip of his nose and finds the closest café. John presents him with hot chocolate, bestowing upon him with a marshmallow and a smile. John has his usual black coffee, and huddles close to Sherlock, lovely and warm and nice smelling. 

 

“I’m happy,” Sherlock says, and it’s shy. 

 

“Me too,” John answers. 

 

******

 

When they finally arrive at their little cottage, they’re both red-nosed, tired and verging on cranky. John is a terrible driver; swerving in and out of his lane at the slightest movement from other cars. Or stray cats. Or pedestrians. Or birds, or every sodding thing in the sodding city.

 

Sherlock, apparently, isn’t allowed to comment on other people’s driving since he doesn’t drive. 

 

“I just don’t know how you’ve made it nineteen years in this world without ever driving, is all,” John says once again. 

 

“I live in London, John. And there were drivers when I was growing up, and then I went away to school, so there wasn’t any need to go anywhere.” 

 

“Drivers, really?” John’s grins.

 

Sherlock casts him a well-bred look of distain; he’s copied it exactly from Mummy, and John quails a little. 

 

“Besides, it’ll be twenty years without driving soon,” Sherlock reminds him happily. “You won’t be dating a teenager anymore. So boring, dating a man in his twenties,” Sherlock teases. John grins and tugs his hair. All John’s done is laugh this entire hols. It’s lovely. 

 

“Mmm yes, what shall I tell my friends? Dating an old man,” John teases. 

 

Sherlock pauses, “You tell your friends about me?”

 

“Well yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t I? Some brilliant, lovely, fit thing that actually wants to spend time with me? Of course I tell them! They’re jealous gits too,” John kisses Sherlock’s ear. “Might have to bring you round the next time we have a pub do; you’d like Mike. Besides, don’t you tell your friends about me?”

 

“I don’t have any friends John,” Sherlock tells him, and for the first time since stupid, awful Eton, he’s sad about it. He’d like to show John off to someone.

 

“Then the world’s filled with fools. And you’ve got me; I’m your friend, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“You’re my boyfriend, John,” Sherlock uses his oh-silly-idiot-John-look-how-cute-he-is tone.

 

“I’m whatever you need me to be, love,” John says, and kisses the breath out of him. 

 

******

 

Sherlock is not nervous. He’s not. If he’s taking an extra seven minutes in the shower, it’s only to make sure he’s extra squeaky clean, not because he’s nervous. 

 

It’s only John, and it’s only sex. 

 

Besides, he’s wanted this for ages. Ever since John smiled at him in the coffee shop, he’s wanted this. 

 

Before it had always been hormones, and everyone else was tossing off, so why not? Why not at least be normal about this one thing, if he couldn’t about anything else. And even if they all hated him, no one at Eton ever even thought of turning Sherlock down, or not trying at least a bit of something with him any chance they got. They all thought he was a weirdo, show-off freak, but at least he was a pretty weirdo show off freak. 

 

Ten minutes past his usual time, now. He rinsed the last of the creme out of his hair, and sharply shut off the water. It’s just sex. Just transport. It’s only John. 

 

The towel is one of those uselessly soft things that feels lovely and doesn’t dry you off, so of course it takes Sherlock four minutes to be passably dry. John wouldn’t want wet sheets. 

 

Or a wet pillow. Should probably dry his hair.

 

The bathmat is lovely. He’ll just sit a bit.

 

******

 

The bed is soft and the sheets are crisp and on top of them is a smiling, wonderful John. There’s a hand held out of him, soft, callused fingers, short clean nails, a dusting of hair on the knuckles. Sherlock breathes; in, out, okay. 

 

“Come here, lovely boy,” John’s fingers curl inwards, crooked and beckoning, and he thinks, he thinks oh, maybe those will be inside me, and it’s only John. Only ever John and only ever this. He sits on the edge of the bed, near John’s funny little feet. His pinky toe is curved in too far, and his third toe tends to overlap his second toe. John’s broken it three times, and it didn’t heal properly the last time.

 

“Come here, Sherlock,” John whispers again, and somehow Sherlock is under the covers, tucked into John’s side, with a warm hand on his side, nearly on his hip, and whispers in his ear, “lovely, sweet boy,” and “come here, Sherlock.” 

 

“I am here,” he points out, uselessly. 

 

John smiles. “No, my darling, you’re not,” and kisses him until he is. 

 

******

 

It’s the work of a few minutes until Sherlock is gasping and heavy lidded and kissing back, following John’s mouth up when he moves away to catch his breath. It’s three more minutes of soft tickling touches on his stomach and fleeting fingertips on his thighs before Sherlock’s legs are splayed wide and his hips are shifting restlessly.

 

When John’s hand closes around Sherlock, they’ve both lost track of time.

 

There’s kissing and pulling and squirming and mess, and so many “pleases” that John can never shout at him again for being impolite. And when Sherlock tells John he “can’t, can’t, can’t” and “not like this” John tells him he can, exactly like this, and kisses him until Sherlock gasps into his mouth and spurts into his hand and onto his stomach. 

 

Sherlock is the sleepy soft that John loves most. He loves snappish, difficult Sherlock, and spoiled, terrible brat Sherlock, and huffing indignant everyone-is-so-stupid-why-is-this-my-life Sherlock, and happy bright Sherlock, and flirty silly Sherlock, but this is his favorite snapshot of his lovely boy. Sleepy and compliant and easy and over stimulated. 

 

There’s a tired trembling hand on John’s stomach, and he scoops it up and kisses the palm until Sherlock is giggling, which is John’s favorite Sherlock noise; moaning and gasping is a close second. 

 

“Go to sleep, sweetheart,” John whispers.

 

“But you-” Sherlock tries, but John hushes him. 

 

“I’m forty eight years old, Sherlock Holmes. If I haven’t learned a little patience by now, then we’re doomed,” John informs him, and kisses his eyelids until they stay shut.

 

********

 

When Sherlock wakes up at four in the morning, and pushes back against John, he’s not nervous. Not even a bit. 

 

********

 

Fingers are tangled in Sherlock’s hair and John’s lovely short, blunt, clever fingers are pushed all three inside him, and he’s quivery and messy and adored when the fingers are replaced and John is heavy and hard inside him. Sherlock feels like every blood vessel will pop and every nerve will sizzle and the sheer wanting of it all will kill him. 

 

John is still and harsh and warm, almost oppressively. “Move,” Sherlock grunts, and squirms back against him, needing everything.

 

“I can’t,” John whispers. “I can’t love, I’ll lose it.” Trembling fingers hook over his hipbones. “Nothing has ever felt this good. No ones ever felt this good,” John confesses.

 

When John moves it’s a jarring, mad friction that hurts and aches wonderfully. There’s a sharp, faint copper scent in the air, and Sherlock knows he’s bleeding a little, and that sort of thing should concern him, right? 

 

But John’s got him. John will sort it all out, and so Sherlock just pushes back, and loves John terribly.


End file.
